


only skin

by sappho



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 08:11:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2805623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sappho/pseuds/sappho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five scars on Cecil and one scar on Carlos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	only skin

The first scar Carlos sees is on Cecil’s left eyebrow.

 

Two short, thin lines run parallel to each other, one right above and one right below the hair there. The lower scar looks significantly deeper than the other. Carlos hasn’t been in town for very long, but he’s trying to figure out just how the radiation levels in the NVCR studio can be off the charts like this and what kind of an animal could have made - 

 

“It’s alright,” Cecil says. “Go ahead and ask. Everyone does.”

 

“Oh,” says Carlos. “I didn’t - “

 

“I was born during the two-toed sloth infestation at Night Vale Hospital. One tried to carry my infant body back to their nest, but the nurse on duty caught it just in time. There was a bit of a struggle, so I’m told. The doctors told me I was lucky to be alive.”

 

“I didn’t mean to stare,” says Carlos. “I just. Didn’t know there were two-toed sloths native to this part of the desert. Or. Of any part of the desert.”

 

“Not anymore,” says Cecil brightly. “We nipped that in the bud ages ago. Here in Night Vale, we take mammalian invasion threats _very_ seriously. Nothing for you to worry about!” He stretches out one hand and smiles. “I’m Cecil. I work here. And - I saw you at the town meeting - you’re - ”

 

“Carlos,” Carlos says. “Hi. Nice to meet you.”

 

-

 

The second scar is on the back of Cecil’s hand.

 

Carlos has seen it before, vaguely, but never up close before now. They sit across from each other at Gino’s, slicing their portobellos and making small talk.

 

At first Carlos thinks it might be a pentagram but, upon closer observation, it’s far more detailed than that. it appears to be a sort of flower, angular, made up of tiny triangles and trapezoids. The whole figure is no more than two inches in diameter but incredible detailed. It appears to be inked in white into the skin.

 

“Cool tattoo,” Carlos says, when there’s a lull in the conversation.

 

“Oh, that.” Cecil stretches his hand out in front of him, examining it, as if he had forgotten it was there at all. “Thank you. Nice linework, isn’t it? I think it turned out pretty well, considering.”

 

“Considering what?” Carlos can’t help but ask.

 

Cecil turns slightly pink. “I mean, everyone has their just-turned-18-and-couldn’t-wait-to-be-initiated-into-a-government-mandated-cult membership tattoo, right?”

 

“Uh,” says Carlos. “Well, I did let a friend stick-and-poke a chemical compound onto my shoulder when I was a teenager. I’ve gotten it retouched since then.”

 

Cecil smiles knowingly. “You know how it is, then. I think mine’s alright, though. For a while, I considered getting it covered up because, you know, they've been hunting me down since I left. But since they relocated to Pine Cliff, I think I’m in the clear.”

 

“Oh - That’s. Lucky, I guess.”

 

“It certainly is. More wine?”

 

-

 

The third scar Carlos doesn’t even see, not at first.

 

They go out for ice cream in early August, one of the hottest days of the year. Cecil orders a scoop of tabasco-sea-salt (“ _Carlos you have to try this, you really do_ -”) while Carlos sticks to the more ordinary butter pecan.

 

It must be a hundred degrees in the shade, at least. Carlos wears his thin, breathable, short-sleeve summer lab coat, but it’s still miserably warm. Cecil, on the other hand, is wearing a dark red turtleneck and long pants, seemingly unbothered.

 

“You’re used to this, huh?” Carlos asks, nodding towards Cecil’s outfit.

 

Cecil blinks at him.

 

“I mean,” Carlos continues, unthinking. “aren’t you hot?”

 

He immediately regrets it. Cecil goes very, visibly still and pale for a moment, just a split second, staring back at Carlos, deer in the headlights. Carlos is about apologize, say _forget it_ , but in another instant, Cecil’s smiling again, shaking his head. “Right, yes, I’m very used to it,” he laughs. “The heat. Very used to the heat. Guess I just run on the colder side.”

 

Carlos tries to smile back, but he can see Cecil nervously adjusting his sleeves, his collar; sweating, and something’s wrong -

 

-

 

The fourth scars are Cecil’s wrists.

 

It’s a week or so later, and Carlos is kissing him, is being kissed, is on the edge of Cecil’s bed with his shirt rucked up and one sock off. Cecil’s hand is warm on the small of his back and _god_ , Cecil’s a good kisser, a really good kisser, tastes like _vanilla_ of all goddamn things -

 

Cecil’s in his boxers, but his shirt’s still on, still buttoned all the way up. Carlos makes an unthinking move for the top button but Cecil’s hands close around his, playfully pulling them away. “Wait,” Cecil says, and dips his mouth to Carlos’s neck.

 

And they keep going, keep kissing, and Carlos’s pants come off, and Cecil must be leaving marks all over Carlos’s neck, _how_ ’s he gonna cover those up in the morning -

 

And it isn’t until Carlos untangles his hands and asks in a small, giggly voice if he can take off Cecil’s shirt that everything just -

 

Cecil tenses up, grabs Carlos’s hands again, holding them still, painfully tight.

 

“Sorry,” Carlos says after a moment of silence. “I didn’t mean to - ”

 

“No, no,” Cecil says quickly. “I just. Do you mind if  - keep the shirt on - ” Cecil’s face is going pink and his hands are suddenly clammy. “Is it okay if I - ”

 

“Of course,” Carlos says, trying to soothe, trying to run his thumbs over Cecil’s knuckles but Cecil won’t let go.

 

“Are you sure. Is it okay. Are you sure it’s okay. Are - ”

 

“Cecil,” Carlos says evenly. “Yes. It’s okay. And you’re. Well. You’re gonna break my fingers.”

 

Cecil lets go with a nervous bark of laughter. “Sorry. I’m just. I’m not good with.” He shakes his head, lapses into silence.

 

And Carlos can see, when he looks down, in the thin space between hem and wrist, tiny little scars, thin and precise. They look old, some far older than others. Some of them look like they’ve been gone over a few times, some of them criss-crossing, but most of them even, straight, neat -

 

Cecil notices him looking and tugs at his sleeve.

 

“You don’t have to,” Carlos says. “You don’t have to do anything. You can, you can leave the shirt on.”

 

“I know.” Cecil fiddles with his cufflinks, his uppermost button, makes sure everything’s secure, in place. He notices the pale markings still peeking out from underneath his sleeves, running from wrist to palm, tries to cover them up, but Carlos has already seen, already knows. “But I want to. I really want to. To do this, with you.”

 

 _To show you_ , he thinks, but doesn’t say. He doesn’t move.

 

“Hey.” Carlos squeezes Cecil’s knee, a spot they’ve already established as generally safe. “Look. Even if you - I mean. It doesn’t have to be now. It’s okay. I’ll go fix us drinks. Maybe find a movie to watch. Does that sound - “

 

“Yeah,” Cecil says quickly. “That sounds nice.”

 

-

 

And despite the scientist in Carlos, despite everything in him that screams to ask why and know how, he lets it be.

 

Because this, too, is part of the nature of discovery - to let something exist, without interference; to accept that Cecil’s fragile ecosystem was already there, long before Carlos happened to observe it. There are things that aren't his to explain, apply variables to, put under a microscope. There are times when asking why isn’t the point.

 

-

 

Carlos makes spiked eggnog and pops popcorn in Cecil’s kitchen while Cecil recuperates.

 

After a little while, Cecil makes his way to the living room to flip through the cable networks. They tune into the second half of _Contact_ , snuggled up on the couch, with Carlos’s legs stretched out and Cecil curled up against his stomach.

 

And after they’ve been settled into their positions for a while, cozy and half-asleep, Cecil sits up.

 

Slowly, deliberately, he unbuttons his cuffs, and rolls up each sleeve to the elbow.

 

Carlos thinks, fleetingly, that he should say something, stop Cecil, tell him he doesn’t have to do this, not right now; tell him that it’s all right, no worries, no pressure -

 

But before he can, Cecil’s already settling back into his place against Carlos’s chest without a word, wrapping his arms tighter than before.

 

-

 

Cecil shows up to their next date wearing a short-sleeve V-neck t-shirt and a nervous smile.

 

“Nice shirt,” Carlos says, kissing him on the cheek. “You look lovely.”

 

-

 

The fifth scar is on Cecil’s chest. And side. And stomach. And hip. And -

 

The room is dark, barely lit by the light trailing in from the hall. Carlos is sitting on the side of the bed, again - both socks off this time - with Cecil straddling his lap, fingers tight in Carlos’ hair. In one, swift motion, Cecil yanks off his shirt, tosses it to the side, and slams their mouths back together before Carlos can see anything. Carlos nearly chokes on the kiss.

 

“Easy, easy,” Carlos gasps. “Let me catch my breath.”

 

Then Cecil’s up and off of him like a shot, hurrying to shut the bedroom door, block off the last slivers of remaining light. “There, good,” he says, but doesn’t sound convinced. Carlos watches him turn and bolt to the window, rearranging the curtains, pressing them close to the window’s edges. And then - a glance back to the door, to the thin sheet of light peeking out from underneath, and suddenly he’s tearing through the dresser drawers. “Need to - block the - maybe a towel or - ” he grabs from the floor the shirt he’s just ripped off and holds it in his fists.

 

“Cecil - hey - “

 

Carlos’s eyes are adjusting, little by little. Even in the shadows, even through the blur of Cecil’s frantic pacing, he can see the white markings spiraling out across Cecil’s body, elaborate and painful.

 

Cecil stops short several feet in front of him, shirt held up to his chest. “Sorry,” he breathes. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

 

“Then we don’t have to.”

 

Cecil laughs nervously. “I hope you don’t think I’m crazy.”

 

Carlos gives him a small smile. “I don’t think you’re crazy.” He pats the bed next to him, but Cecil stays put.

 

“And I hope you don’t think I’m - ” Cecil pulls the shirt closer, shielding himself.. “That I’m - ”

 

“That you’re - ?”

 

Cecil shakes his head. “Never mind.” He turns away from Carlos, tugs the shirt back on over his head. For a split second, even in the darkness, Carlos can see where the scars stretch all the way along Cecil’s ribs, ragged across his back. “Sorry to put you through this again.”

 

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Carlos says, getting to his feet. “If you’re worried about the - ”

 

“Worried about the - ?”

 

“ _Cecil_ ,” Carlos interrupts. “I like your body. All of it.”

 

Cecil makes a choked off, derisive sound in his throat. “And the scars. Even the scars.”

 

“Of course. Scars are just places where the body has healed itself. The tissue might look a little different, but it’s all the same. It does what skin it supposed to do. Heal. Protect.”

 

Cecil toes at the carpet. “You haven’t seen the worst of it.”

 

Carlos reaches for the bedside lamp and flicks the switch, flooding the room with light. He grabs the hem of his own shirt, pulls it off over his head. “Well. Neither have you.”

 

-

 

The sixth scar is on Carlos’s chest.

 

It’s a puncture wound, somewhere below his heart, deep and frightening, and instantly, Cecil remembers _the Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex_ -

 

Cecil can’t believe he’s forgotten, can’t believe he could have _possibly_ forgotten. Just hearing about it knocked the breath out of him. He had nightmares about all that blood for days.

 

And Carlos - he can’t imagine what Carlos must have gone through in the days and weeks afterwards, must still be going through: the healing, the recovery.  The memories.

 

“I didn’t realize,” he murmurs.

 

“I know," Carlos says. "It's okay."

 

“I should have known,” Cecil presses.

 

“It’s _okay_ ,” Carlos repeats. He shuffles back and forth a little. “I mean. You weren’t there when it happened. You couldn’t have known all of. The _whole story_. And I - well, I don’t know your whole story either.” He steps towards Cecil, then back, then forward again, unsure where to go next.

 

Cecil meets him halfway, one hand tentatively stretched forward. “Can I touch?” Carlos nods. Cecil traces the diameter of the wound, marvels at the evenness of the new skin there, wonders if there’s an exit wound on the other side. He presses his hand to Carlos’s chest, fingers splayed over Carlos’s heart.

 

“It’s still healing,” Carlos says. “I’ve been taking care of it but - well, it looks like the scar’s going to be around for a while. Forever, maybe.” Carlos closes his hand around Cecil’s, winding their fingers together. “A scar is nothing to be ashamed of. It means something tried to kill me, but I’m still here.” He squeezes Cecil’s hand. “You’re still here, too.”

 

Cecil shakes his head. “It’s not like that for me. Well. Some of them, maybe. But others - _I_ did that. _I_ tried to kill me.”

 

“But you survived,” Carlos repeats. He pulls Cecil closer.

 

“Some days," Cecil says, "it doesn’t quite feel that way.”

 

Carlos nods. “Do you. Do you maybe want to talk about it?”

 

“Yeah,” Cecil says, squeezing Carlos’s hand in return. "Maybe." He smiles a little, despite himself. “I’d like to try.”

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic in this fandom. My first fic in years!
> 
> Title taken from the Joanna Newsom song.


End file.
